


First Shot

by Ubinoft



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Psychological Warfare, slight sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ubinoft/pseuds/Ubinoft





	First Shot

Hélène held her breathe as he entered from the grand duel doors of the manor. Her brother, as charming as he was, found himself in the wrong bed, with the wrong bed company and she was simply there to pick up pieces of a broken playboy.

Her heels clacked sharply against the wooden floors, breathing in sandalwood and faint traces of heavy liquor. She could pick up the awful cologne Pierre drowns himself in and she grimaces at her noticing it. Her betrothed sat comfortably on the plush couch in Marya’s living room, scowling and smoking from his silver pipe. Anatole sat awkwardly, knees together and shifting in his spot like a dog being belittled by his owner. His head picked up at the entrance of Hélène and his tight knitted eyebrows dropped to ones of relief.

“Oh dear sister, how wonderful it is for you to come!” Anatole’s smile was crooked and nervous, his soft tenor trembling.

Pierre turned his gaze over his shoulder, looking at his wife. Narrowing his eyes, he trained his eyes to face Anatole again, a low growl in his throat.

“Hello Hélène.” He grumbled between pursed lips. Hélène took her place next to her husband, her senses overloaded with the smell of tobacco and his terrible scent. She looked sadly at her brother, seeing his golden pride, shattered. She huffed a sigh, rolling her wedding ring with her thumb. She hates it, how she’s bond to a man that hates her life style, hates her brother, hates anything that makes her life enjoyable. She looks at the glimmering jewel that rests carefully in it’s band and she remembers why she’s here in the first place.

“Anatole, I’m taking you home.” Hélène starts to stand, but her husband beats her to it.

“I can take him. He’s already had a verbal whipping by Marya, and you’re lucky you got to see him alive.” He goes and snatches the corner of Anatole’s uniform, pulling him up and along by the collar. “I’ll see you back at the house, Marya probably would like a word.”

With that, he drags the Kurgain out the door and without even a goodbye.

_God to think, I married a man like you._ Hélène hissed mentally when the grand doors closed again. she sank into the rich material of the couch, head back and sighing all the while. She bit her lip to suppress all the obscenities she screamed mentally, she was going to catch fire if her mind raced any faster.

_Stupid, idiot brother. Why did you chase after the only woman who would end you? Vile, charmless, husband, why did you leave me alone? Alone in this house? Alone to only me and **her?**_

“Hélène.” Her breath caught in her throat, choking her.

Hélène turned her well groomed head to face the countess that sauntered down the staircase with an air of gravitas and spite. She sneered and bore daggers into Hélène’s skin, her wrathful eyes tearing deeper than just the fair makeup she chose to wear, past the tailored gown and into her soul. Hatred surrounded her like an aura, wordless magic and deadly enchantments.

_God she’s beautiful._

“Yes?” She wore a smile of deceit, arrogant and all-mighty. Only fit for such the likes of gods, yet her lips curl to flash it without hesitation.

“It’s about your brother.”

_Oh of course it is, get on with it._

“Hmm?” She forced a look of surprise, making only polite conversation.

“Did Pierre not inform you?” She took her place across from Hélène, her lady-like mannerisms gone, and only annoyance remained.

“That man tells me nothing.” It wasn’t all a lie, she just didn’t include the part where she gives the same curtsey.

“Anatole. Your brother. Tried to seduce and capture..no. Kidnap. My dear, Natasha.” Her lip curled cruely against her teeth, gritted and locked together.

“Natasha? The charming girl? Certainly not? And with Anatole. Of all people.” The Kuragin shifted her spot on the couch, wanting to sprint out the doors of the manor and to drown in the icy river to clear the warmth in her head, clouding her better judgements.

The blaze in Marya’s eyes raged ever stronger, furious at the display of such utter disrespect towards her family name, such bile in her throat as she witnessed the calm, almost coy demeanor of Hélène’s figure. How she wished to tear the girl into shreds of silk and lace, to watch her pearls scatter and pour over her rich floors. Her nonchalance to crumble and crash beneath her, for her to beg mercy and pray to a god she defiles. For lavish skin to flush and burn under her fingertips, for pupil to drown the iris. Alas, she scrapes her fingernails along the flesh of her palm, steadying her breath and desires. She will not admit defeat when the battle hasn’t begun.

Hélène almost misses the spark that flashes across the dame’s face, how her eyes scan for a flaw, an imperfection that would deem the girl unfit for her presence, after all, how could she claim divinity in front of a goddess? She smiles her twisted smile of sins long past and sins to come, watching as the creases fold, eyes sharpen and snarl curls on her ungodly obsession. Heat spreads from chest to neck, prickling at the ears and collecting in her fists, white with an almost anticipation. She puffs her chest out, straightening her back and pulling her legs closer to the couch, dryly swallowing what left in her mouth, wishing a better thing of interest were there. If it’s a fight she must endure, so be it.

“You Kurgians are absolute demons.” First shot.

“If we were, we certainly wouldn’t meddle with the righteous and holy.” Counterattack.

“The devil wanders, dragging souls to Hell with him.” Advancement into enemy territory.

“Then why does God let us roam?” Artillery.

“For the righteous and holy to strike down themselves.” First blood.

Two woman engaged in such combat was untold of in such a time, it simply wasn’t proper for either party. Watching as moral starts to ease away, as once cautious words becoming tainted with ulterior motives and what was civility, turning to crude and bitter statements. As appearances peeled away, showing layers of rage and blinding hunger enraptured both women. As action and anger devours time and energy, the cloudy sky burnt to a calming evening. The spiteful battle eased to a standstill, allowing Hélène to pick up her war torn body, heading for a door and a world she curses would just disappear. She bids no farewells, just briskly making her way to brass knobs.

Her path is blocked.  
  
And another battle begins.

She feels an iron-clad grip crush her hip as molten lava melds into her being. Harsh breathing and strangled moans barely escape, the wind in her lungs being replaced by the scent go her, and in that moment she is utterly real. She reciprocates, grabbing onto a shoulder and merging their lips into a dance that could only be shared by lovers, but is so tenderly, yet violently recreated haphazardly in the cold walls of the estate. When they part, she flashes a smile of victory. She doesn’t leave that night. She returns home the next day, happy and suddenly more willing for her husband’s presence. 


End file.
